Page 11 of Cookout Carnage
She squirms away. “Fuck off with your fancy shit language. I have to get married.”
“I’m sure Brodie would be happy to oblige.” She turns and picks up a wooden table that’s almost as big as she is and tosses it across the patio with tremendous force. It splinters on one corner, and I stare at her. I’m impressed. Didn’t know she could bench that much.
“He’s fucking married. He can’t marry me.”
Oh God, this woman is a mess.
“Cool, then what about my ole pal, Scooter? I know he’s been in most of your holes. He’s got a big mouth and let everyone in the Middle East know.”
She nods. No apology or remorse, only the furniture bashing.
“Scooter doesn’t have what I need. He’s divorced, and I can’t marry no divorced man. Or that man. He can’t cook for shit.” Glad I rank above those two.
I pick up the table and put it back where it belongs. Her father hustles through the back door. He always jogs in and out of places like he’s running to the mound to pull the pitcher. Tanya instantly glues herself to me.
“Daddy, you caught us. We just had to steal a moment.” Who is this woman? She squeezes me tight and wipes tears from her eyes quickly.
He gruffs and then glances over at the gold bust of himself on top of a fountain. He pumps his fists at it, then turns back to us. “The guests are restless. Get your asses inside, so I don’t lose the contacts I invited tonight.” He turns and does the old man baseball manager jog back into the house. I turn her around in my arms.
I say, “I’ll tell him. I’m sorry.” She cries harder. This is so hard.
She looks up at me. “Moron. I’m not crying over you. I need you.”
I back away from her. “Unravel it all, right the fuck now, my darling fiancée.”
I sit, and she walks in a tight little circle. Then she faces me, pulls her shoulders back, and hikes her top over her cleavage.
She takes my hand. “I am sorry about the sex thing. I thought if we had sex, it would be like too much for me to screw you over, so I didn’t screw you. Not sure why you didn’t cheat.”
I scrub my face and then clap. I turn to her and say, “You don’t know me at all. I’ve gotta find my parents and get out of here.”
Her face tightens as I prepare for a tantrum or tears. It’s going to be awful. There’s a long pause.
“We’re totally getting married.”
I laugh as my head whips around to her. “No. No. No. I don’t want to. You’ve lost the plot, as my British friends would say.” I turn to leave, but she clamors in front of me. She’s not sad. She’s possessed.
Her hands curl around her mafia-striped waist.”I didn’t want it to come to this, but here we are. I get lots of money from my dad and my mee-maw if I’m married to you. A huge payout. My father wants your farm. He wants me to marry you to get it on account of it’s in trouble, and he wants the land.” I’m leaning over her. “Don’t marry me, and I’ll make sure your bedroom and Squeakers’ pen are a Walmart parking lot by August.”
I bust out laughing. She’s delusional. “Your plan is blackmail?”
She raises her chin in defiance and sharply nods.
She tries to kick my shin, but I move out of the way. “No. Although he does have the dastardly mustache, you and your so-called powerful father can’t do that.”
“Give me six months, and you can keep your farm. I’ll even sign something else. Six months and we go our separate ways.”
Not giving her six minutes, but six seconds to hear how she thought this would play out will be entertaining.
“How much money is this marriage worth to you?” I’m curious.
“$50,000.64.”
“Why sixty-four cents?”
“I negotiated up.” I roll my eyes.
“I’d never sign over the farm.”
